Chapter Fifteen
I HADN’T MEANT for Chain to see me. I hadn’t meant to see anything at all.
I’d only caught a flicker of orange through the curtains, the kind of light that once meant danger, and curiosity pulled me toward the window before I could think twice.
But the second I looked out, everything inside me went still.
The bonfire below roared high, sparks drifting like tiny stars as they rose into the dark.
Men crowded around it, shadows moving in and out of the flames, their laughter rough and brash in the night air.
Women drifted between them, dancing, drinking, leaning into hands and bodies without hesitation, bare skin catching the firelight in flashes.
And for a moment, my mind couldn’t separate what I was seeing from what I remembered.
The yard blurred at the edges, the flames stretching too high, the voices sharpening into something crueler.
The smell of smoke curled through the closed window and twisted into another scent entirely, burning oil, scorched flesh, the metallic bite of fear. My pulse stumbled. My hands tightened on the curtain. And before I could stop it, I was somewhere else entirely.
Back in the compound.
Back in the punishment circle.
Back where fires weren’t for warmth or celebration, but for obedience.
Jasper’s voice surfaced first—soft, coaxing, poisonous.
My second Shepherd. The one they sent me to when they said I was too defiant, too mouthy, too unwilling to kneel.
He’d stood by the fire that night with the poker glowing white at the tip, smiling like he was doing me a favor.
I’ll mark you so no one else will ever want you, he’d whispered, and the memory still scraped raw along my bones.
My palm lifted to my cheek before I realized it, tracing the uneven skin that never fully softened. For a moment, the heat of that night flickered across my face, the hiss, the scent, the bright, blinding pain, and my breath caught hard enough to hurt.
“No,” I whispered, forcing the word past the tightness in my throat. “You don’t own me. Not my skin. Not my memory.”
The sound of my own voice grounded me, thin at first, but steadying. I took a breath, then another, letting the present ease in around the edges. Slowly, the bonfire below shifted back into view, its flames no longer reaching for me but simply dancing where they belonged.
Chain had joined the group now, dropping down beside Gearhead, the firelight carving warm gold along his jaw. For a brief moment, the exhilaration from earlier—riding behind him on that bike, the world opening wide and wild—rose in my chest. But it faltered the second I saw her.
A woman climbed into his lap, laughing against his throat, touching him like she’d done it a thousand times.
My body went rigid, not from jealousy, not from hope, but from something louder, older, carved deep through experience.
Men said one thing. Did another. They promised with one hand while taking with the other.
I had scars to prove how easy it was to believe the wrong thing.
Chain pushed her off a moment later, his expression unreadable in the shifting firelight. But I didn’t let that spark anything inside me. I refused to make the same mistake twice.
Then his gaze lifted, and found mine.
From the yard to the window, through smoke and glass, his eyes locked with mine. I didn’t look away. Didn’t drop my chin. Didn’t let the past drag me under again. I held him there, unwavering, solid, unbroken. I wasn’t a vessel. I wasn’t a prize. I wasn’t something to claim or hide or reshape.
I was mine.
My hands dropped from the curtains, trembling not with fear, but with the effort it took to stay present. When he finally turned and walked away from the flames, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I crossed the quiet room, and crawled into the bed that was finally mine and no one else’s.
Tomorrow, a new life would begin again—raw and uncertain and imperfect, but honest.
And I would not let the past steal even one more piece of me.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.
***
MORNING CAME TOO early.
Sunlight cut through the blinds in thin, bright stripes, bars across the wall that reminded me too much of the room I’d left behind. For a dazed heartbeat, I almost forgot where I was. Then the scent of coffee and bacon drifted up, warm and rich.
Not the compound.
No bells. No orders. No Shepherd dictating my day before it even began.
Freedom still felt strange in my hands. Some mornings it settled there easy. Others, it slipped straight through my fingers.
I dressed slow—jeans, a faded tee Zeynep had lent me—then followed the noise toward the kitchen.
Josie stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, spatula flipping pancakes with the kind of ease that made me wonder how many mornings he’d done this before. Flour dusted his forearms. The clubhouse was quiet except for the low sound of the exhaust fan and the soft sizzle from the pan.
“Mornin’, Lark,” he said, smiling with as much warmth as the skillet in front of him.
“Morning.” I slid onto a stool. “You always cook this early?”
“Always cook, period,” he said with a grin. “If I don’t, these heathens live off gas station burritos and bad decisions.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Guess they’re lucky to have you.”
“Guess you are too—if you’re hungry.”
“I can make something for myself,” I said automatically, the old instinct bright as ever. I didn’t want to take more than I earned.
He didn’t argue. Just set a plate in front of me—pancakes, eggs, bacon—steam curling up in soft ribbons. “Eat,” he said simply. “It’s what I do.”
I hesitated, then picked up the fork. “Thanks. I’m still… adjusting to all this.”
Josie nodded, no pity anywhere in his face. “Freedom’s messy,” he said. “But it’s better than the alternative.”
“Most days,” I agreed.
“Give it time. You’ll find your rhythm.”
Something in his voice—sure, calming—made me smile. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Making people feel like they’re not broken.”
He chuckled. “I don’t see anyone broken.”
Before I could answer, the back door swung open, boots on tile, heavy, confident, unmistakable.
Chain. I knew it before I even turned my head.
He filled the doorway like he belonged to it, broad shoulders, damp hair, his cut catching the morning light. That familiar pull followed him, the low-burn intensity that made the air shift, made rooms go quiet, made something in my chest tighten before I could brace for it.
His gaze swept the kitchen, slow, assessing, until it landed on Josie and me at the counter. The look wasn’t sharp, but it had weight, enough to make the space between us feel suddenly smaller.
“Smells good in here,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “You feedin’ everyone, or just handpickin’ your customers, Prospect?”
Josie smirked. “Anyone who shows up early enough gets fed first.”
Chain’s mouth curved—half humor, half something else that brushed heat up the back of my neck. “You got yourself a line cook or a damn therapist this morning, Lark?”
“Both, apparently,” I said, forcing the lightness even though the air had thickened with something that wasn’t light at all.
He grunted and moved past us, settling beside Devil—who I hadn’t even noticed at the table—and leaned back in his chair with an ease that looked casual but wasn’t. He didn’t look at me directly, but I could feel him anyway, the steady heat of his attention sitting right against my skin.
Josie went back to flipping pancakes like nothing had shifted, but everything had. The air felt charged now, like the kitchen had gone from quiet to crowded with something unspoken.
I finished my plate just as Lucy, Spinner, Mystic, and Zeynep spilled into the room, their laughter snapping the tension for a moment.
“Morning!” Lucy chirped. “Josie, you’re a saint.”
“Tell the VP that,” he muttered.
Zeynep brushed a curl back and gave me a warm smile. “Mind if we join you?”
“Please,” I said, grateful for the distraction, even if it didn’t fully land.
The men gathered around Devil and Chain. We sat near the window while Lucy filled the space with bright chatter, plans, gossip, updates on her work rescuing trafficked women. I should’ve been fully present. I should’ve cared, especially given what I’d survived.
But my mind drifted, to the fire last night, to the woman on Chain’s lap, to the way he’d looked at me when he realized I’d seen him, heat and frustration tangled in a way I didn’t have the vocabulary for.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t care.
But when I risked another glance toward the table, his gaze was already there—unwavering, unblinking, something dark and sure behind it, something I didn’t have enough experience in this world to name.
I looked away first, pulse ticking faster than it should’ve.
And suddenly I wasn’t sure if the restlessness moving through me came from the life I was trying to build… or the man whose gaze seemed to hit the deepest parts of me.